Dice Quaid and the Forbidden Zone
by Captain Campion
Summary: A year after the events in "Last Stand", Dice Quaid travels wasteland Earth with two companions in an effort to nurture humanity's rebirth on the planet. Along the way Dice finds something he thought he had lost forever.
1. Negotiations

**1. Negotiations**

The rusting tanker truck drove between two rows of large concrete hangers that sported big red metal doors. The stenciled numbers on those doors matched the oil logo on the side of the truck in that all had faded beyond readability. The truck kicked a plume of brown dust from the Earth as its aging diesel engine chugged, hesitated, and otherwise complained.

One of the hanger doors near the center of the old Russian air base opened; the mechanism creaked and groaned while the metal—thin and highly corroded—wobbled as it rose. A burly-looking fellow wearing a woodland camouflage tunic over black pants and holding a nasty-looking bullpup military rifle directed the tanker into the new opening with a stern wave from one of his big hands.

The tanker complied and clumsily lumbered into the space exchanging the bright sun of another hot day on wasteland Earth for a dark, dry chamber filled with the stench of old oil, rotting wood, and decades of neglect.

The hanger that once housed the high tech military equipment of mother Russia now served as a warehouse. Rows of tall metal shelving held pallets of tires, machine tools, powdered foods, bags of soil—a collection of eclectic supplies gathered and stored by the powerful for distribution when the right barter could be found. Rows of dangling round lights provided some illumination, although more than half of the bulbs long ago burned out without replacement.

An open space waited between the rows of shelves. The tanker truck came to a stop there, its grill five yards shy of a table where a middle aged black man held court. He wore the trappings of a King: fine silk clothes with gold and silver decorations on his fingers and in his ears with his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses despite the lack of light.

The noisy diesel engine switched off, the cabin door swung open, and Dice Quaid hopped to the concrete floor in one spry bound. He wore a sleeveless Second Earth tunic as he had worn since the day he had left humanity behind so many years before. On his head, however, rested a hat that elicited several chuckles: a white fedora with a thick black band but, most noticeably, several blue and green thin glowing tubes—wires, almost—were wrapped around the head piece; the types of novelty items that might once have been distributed at a night club for dancers or perhaps at a child's birthday party.

Dice—aware of the gun barrels trained in his direction—kept his empty hands in full view and strolled toward the table.

"Mister Mann! It's good to see you. Yes Sir, I know you are business man and it is great to be doing this type of honest, straight forward, easy business with you."

Mr. Mann drummed his fingers on the table.

Dice felt a shove from behind. The big guy with the camouflage outfit held his heavy bullpup rifle in one hand and ran searching fingers along Dice's waste band and legs. Dice's good humor faltered as he found the fondling a touch unnerving.

A man standing among several on Mann's flank found the whole thing hilarious. He let loose a serious of chuckles that grew into a hardy laugh. Dice studied him. He wore punk hair dyed blue and a white blazer with a blue shirt underneath (the collar turned up), and a red tie hung loosely from his neck. But it was his eyes—his crazy, insane eyes—that caught Dice's attention. He already had met Bormann—the ex-military guy doing the searching. He had heard his resume: 2nd Earth NCO known for brutality and efficiency during the Blue Wars. Now Dice realized he was meeting Laughing Boy; Mann's most psychotic follower.

Bormann did the heavy duty work; Laughing Boy played the roll of assassin. Like all of Mann's organization, they were deadly and dangerous. But also powerful and well-supplied due to careful management of resources and manpower.

Dice hoped Mann would prove a wiser businessman than most of the other petty warlords he had met over the last year of his travels. Sometimes he wondered if the human race was actually worth saving.

"He's clean, Mr. Mann."

"Good. I wouldn't expect you to be so stupid as to try and double cross me, Quaid. But a man has got to be careful, doesn't he?"

"Of course, sure, yeah," Quaid walked forward until he came to the table. "That's why I contacted you, Mr. Mann. I know you are one smart fella. You have a rep as a real thinker; a real business guy. Um, may I?" Dice referenced an empty metal chair on the business side of the table. Mann nodded. Dice sat. A scrawny guy with a beard holding a small Tech-9 machine pistol stood just behind Dice, no doubt ready to put a bullet in his head on the word of his boss. "So any-who, I'm glad we were able to do this little transaction. As you can see, I have brought an entire tanker truck full of petro-diesel."

"It hasn't gone stale, you say?"

"No Sir, Mr. Mann. Now what good would that be to anyone?"

"Bormann…check it."

Bormann joined another armed guard at the tanker. The two of them climbed atop the vehicle, opened an access port, and lowered a test strip on a metal rod into the liquid inside.

Dice went on, eagerly, "Freshly made stuff. Like I told you last week, the people I represent drill the oil and refine it into diesel and a whole lotta other grades of gasoline, whatever you need. Really valuable stuff. And all they want in return is some equipment, starting with that Shrike we agreed on for the tanker fuel."

Mann's eyes went to Dice's crazy hat. His mouth curled in disapproval of the styling, flashing gold-capped teeth. The warlord regained his focus and asked, "What do they want with an armored Shrike? The bugs have been AWOL for a year now, don't they know?"

"Well sure, yeah, they know that. Everyone knows that. But there are a few out there here and there. And let's face it, Mr. Mann, there are a lot of things in this crazy world of ours that are up to no good and they're not all Blue, right? I mean, am I right?"

Dice smiled a big friendly grin while his eyes kept mental note of where the guards were (Laughing Boy plus two next to Mann…Bormann and one at the tanker…scrawny guy to his side…two more off to the right, one by the gate…maybe another one or two in the shadows…) and did they appear ready to pull triggers?

"It's good. Very fresh, too," Bormann called from the tanker as he climbed down.

"Good, there, see? It's all good, just like I said. Yep, that's how I like to play it. I'm a straight shooter," Dice knew the moment of truth arrived. He desperately hoped his faith in humanity would be rewarded…but his eyes searched for cover nonetheless. To his left, just in front of the first row of shelves, he spied a stack of sturdy wooden crates atop an old army footlocker. Enough, perhaps, to stop a low caliber bullet.

"Mr. Quaid. I don't like doing business with middlemen. So here's what we'll do. I will personally deliver the armored Shrike to your associates. This would be a good way to do it, don't you think so?"

Dice fidgeted.

"Well, now, I tend to agree with you Mr. Mann, in theory, that is. But these folks want to stay anonymous. They think it's in their best interest to do it that way. So," Dice glanced around the garage as if searching for Mann's end of the bargain, "if I could just have the Shrike I'll be on my way--"

"No."

"Um…how's that?"

Mann dropped his civilized businessman facade and reverted to petty warlord. He slipped his glasses halfway down his nose to make eye contact with Dice and his voice turned rough.

"You're going to point the way to these people and their oil and their gas because everything in this part of the world belongs to me, even if I don't got it yet. And if you don't get with the program—_my_ program—then I'm going to let Laughing Boy here take a knife to you."

Said boy spat a high cackle. Dice found it quite disturbing.

"He finds a lot of things amusing, um, don't he?"

"Yeah, well, he got shot in the throat a few years back and laughing is all he can do with his voice. But he can do lots of shit with a knife, get the point?"

Another insane giggle.

Mann added, "Are we going to have a problem?"

Dice closed his eyes, sighed, and then plastered a big friendly fake grin on his face. With one hand he slowly raised his light-lined hat then returned it to his head, somewhat of a polite tip.

Mann sneered again at the thing.

"What is that stupid thing you're wearing?"  
"This, oh, yeah, well she said it had a…oh now what was it she said? Oh yeah, it had a _unique heat signature_."

A thin beam of light punched through the metal hanger door. One of the thugs standing behind Mann—a guy in a sleeveless leather jacket like something from an old biker gang—flew backwards and to the floor; a gaping red hole appeared in his chest from a large caliber bullet.

A second beam of light joined by a soft _crunch_ as another hole tore open in the flimsy gate. Another of Mann's men toppled.

Bormann—his military training a step ahead of Mann's less professional crew—correctly guessed the situation: "Take cover!"

Dice stood and swung a heavy right fist in one motion, catching the confused grunt on his flank with a solid punch. His Tech-9 spun upwards while his body fell backwards. Dice caught it and lunged for the cover of the crates…

…Outside a sniper's scope engaged from an elevated position with advanced heat-sensing technology. The men scattering inside the hanger appeared as nearly identical blobs of white, red, and yellow. Except for one: the one with the bands of blue and green on his head that made for easy identification.

With the exception of the still-warm engine block on the tanker truck, the obstacles, cover, and hiding spots inside appeared as little more than ghostly shadows, and provided not much more safety than such shadows. Not to a .50 caliber cannon.

The sniper fired. And fired. And fired, shredding the hanger door with more round holes and finding two more targets in the process including one bad guy who would need to go by the nickname 'lefty' for whatever remained of the rest of his life…

Dice poked his head up from behind the crates. Mann crawled on the oily floor toward a rear exit door, his silk clothes now stained from the grunge and the blood of his henchmen. The others crouched, dove, and otherwise tried to find some measure of protection from their unseen assailant. One of the more brutish fellows fired a burst from a compact Second Earth carbine toward and through the hanger door. While his bullets failed to find any target, the muzzle flash drew attention; a beam of light shone on his face which then promptly disintegrated.

Two bullets chipped the crates in front of Dice. He ducked down and fired the Tech-9 wildly.

The burly Bormann astutely took refuge on the ground between the two front tires of the tanker, no doubt guessing the nature of the sniper's vision. Unlike the bulk of Mann's forces, Bormann remained calm and refused to completely cede the initiative. He glanced at the supply shelves…more bullets punched through the gate as illustrated by more beams of light…Bormann dared leave cover and grabbed a container about the size of a cigar box and returned to the interference of the warm engine.

Dice peeked out again. He saw Bormann acting and it made him feel uneasy but a burst of bullets in his direction forced him to retreat again.

The box was not, in fact, full of cigars but, rather, held flares. Bormann threw several of the white-hot burning devices onto the floor in front of the gate where they glowed with fierce heat creating a wall of hot and, he certainly hoped, distortion to the sniper's eye.

Dice—crunched behind the crates and foot locker—heard the gunfire go silent. He peeked out from his position and immediately saw why. Mann's men slowly emerged from their hiding spots.

Before Dice could formulate a new plan he heard a laugh…from behind. He turned to find a rifle butt headed for his face, but Laughing Boy did not move fast enough. Dice ducked—sending his unusual head gear flying—then used his left hand to grab and throw the light-weighted fancy-dressed hoodlum over the crates and out onto the middle of the floor.

Quaid quickly brought up his gun and found his stance matched by Bormann and two thugs who had him outgunned rather significantly, especially as Laughing Boy struggled to his feet (with, yes, a giggle).

"Aw crap."

Mann appeared at the back of the hanger, his clothes ruined from crawling and his sunglasses broke in half but still dangling from his nose.

He shouted in a voice that sounded less warlord and more angry child, "Shoot him! Shoot the son of a bitch!"

CRASH! SCREECH!

The door to the hanger exploded inward bringing with it an entire blob of bright sun as well as shards of corroded metal. An open air Jeep raced inside with its hood ornament centered on the four bad guys squaring off against Dice. They scattered. Bormann dove backwards over the table where negotiations had ended badly just moments before, Laughing Boy managed to scramble off toward the shelves, and the two others enjoyed a short flight into the back wall of the hanger courtesy of the Jeep's hood.

Dice leapt over the crates and bound to the driver's side door. There sat an eleven year old boy with messy black hair wearing a green T-shirt over jean shorts. He sat on a stack of books so that his nose could just barely see over the steering wheel.

Dice commanded, "Move over!"

"You said I could drive."

Dice grit his teeth and mumbled, "Don't argue with—"

The obstinate kid insisted, "You said I could drive!"

Dice—acutely aware of the band of thugs regaining their wits—let loose a loud, frustrated grunt, rolled across the hood to the other side, and threw his legs up and over the door and into the passenger's seat.

Bormann collected his bullpup rifle from the floor and rose from behind the table. Dice stretched his Tech-9 overtop the windshield and let a trio of bullets fly, forcing Bormann down again.

The Jeep's wheels skidded on the oily floor then caught, propelling the vehicle backwards and outside. Dice felt the air change from the moist and somewhat cool interior of the hanger to a dry, unforgiving afternoon heat coming from a cloudless summer sky.

The kid cranked the wheel and spun the car sideways sending a swirling puff of dust and dirt skyward. He then slammed on the accelerator with his tippy toes and the Jeep hurried south between the rows of hangers…

…Bormann watched the Jeep go. Mann shouted, "Don't let em' get away! No one does this shit to The Mann!"

Bormann had already planned for this contingency.

"He wanted a shrike," he said. "I say we give him a couple."

Mann's top lieutenant spoke into a small walkie-talkie.

"Bandit One…get moving!"…

The end of the corridor of hangers was in sight. Dice did not spy any signs of pursuit. His heart still raced but it raced a little softer.

Then the door to the last hanger on the left opened and out came a red and blue metal monster of the most lethal variety: an Armored Shrike. One of the personal, bipedal battle tanks that had been the main weapons platforms during the Blue Wars. A means of making the most out of every soldier at a time when manpower was in short supply but firepower was in great need.

Dice recognized this model of shrike as it pivoted and blocked their escape to the south. He knew it to be a Heavy Duty model, the backbone of the old military. While this one appeared poorly maintained, dented in spots, and showed signs of neglect, the shoulder-mounted Gatling gun and the five-hundred-pound rifle in its mechanical hands appeared operational enough.

The operator sat in a confined space protected behind what resembled a chest plate with a helmet-like head providing visual displays for the pilot.

The kid slammed on the brakes nearly sending seatbelt-less Dice through the windshield of the Jeep. Then he yanked hard on the wheel and spun the Jeep around, speeding to the north away from the Shrike.

Dice took some small comfort in realizing one of Mann's amateur's piloted the war machine for the first round of shots from the various weapons at the metal-beast's disposal went wide of their mark, chewing up chunks of dirt and concrete from the aging road between the hangers rather than metal and flesh from the fleeing Jeep.

Laughing Boy, Mann, and Bormann stood at the entrance to the original hanger and watched the Jeep race by as it sped north this time. They did not fire, preferring to find amusement in Dice's apparently futile attempt to escape.

Bormann raised his radio again.

"Bandit's Two and Three, get moving now!"…

…A chubby guy wearing loosely-fitting sweat pants and an ancient "Manchester United" t-shirt slammed the can of tin beef from which he had been eating onto the metal table as Bormann's message for "Bandit Three" grabbed his attention.

He sighed but knew better than to disobey orders in favor of finishing lunch. He slipped leather gloves on and turned his attention to the red and white painted Heavy Duty Shrike at rest inside the dark, lonely hanger. The mechanical monstrosity sat on its knees to allow the driver to easily climb into the rear hatch.

As he moved toward that opening a sound caught his ear. He turned and saw a girl come out of the shadows. A young girl, maybe sixteen, with straight, shoulder-length blond hair and sharp green eyes. The fact that she wore a well-kept Second Earth battle suit should have put him on guard, but he was more concerned with reacting to Bormann's orders and, at the same time, the idea of girls—even young ones—lurking around one of Mann's facilities was nothing new; Mann liked all sort of women for all sort of uses.

"Look babe, I don't have time to full around," he said.

"That's too bad," the girl said as she pointed a gun at him with one hand and dangled a pair of hand cuffs in the other. "Because I'm sooo in to bondage."…

…The Jeep neared the northern terminus of the hangers. And just as Dice expected, an Armored Shrike emerged from one of those metal gates to block their path. The kid brought the Jeep to an abrupt halt at the green machine's metal feet.

This model carried no guns: it was a 'Grapple' model, the type perfected for a sort of hand-to-hand combat against The Blue as well as support roles such as cargo transport and Shrike repair. The lack of guns, however, belied a lack of weapons.

"Get back! Get back!" Dice yelled because he saw what the pilot intended.

The Grapple's massive hands rose above its artificial 'head' and slammed down in two fists with enough force to crush the Jeep into a tin can. But those fists hit solid Earth as the kid pushed the transmission into reverse and backed the Jeep off as fast as he could.

The Grapple gave chase; its metal 'feet' contained rollers giving it the appearance of skating. It glided forward slamming its arms down and to the ground trying to catch the Jeep's hood as it reversed away. Each blow came closer and closer to striking home. Dice felt his mouth go dry as he watched helplessly from the passenger's seat as each thunderous smash fell short of mark.

The backwards-driving Jeep sped past Mann and his men yet again, this time with the Grapple in close pursuit. Laughing Boy raised his hand, pointed, and cackled.

But then he stopped laughing.

The hanger gate across the way exploded open. 'Bandit Three' barreled out like a linebacker moving for a quarterback sack. War machines collided as the newcomer slammed into the rolling Grapple with what could be considered its shoulder. The metal beast toppled side ways and over, tumbling toward the hanger where the bad guys watched.

They scattered yet again, chased back into the shadows.

The kid stopped reversing and Dice breathed a sigh of relief…then ducked as heavy rounds raced over his head. The first thug-driven Shrike—the one with the guns—remained, holding its position on the south side and firing at the Jeep as well as the obviously-hostile Shrike.

The girl piloting 'Bandit Three' left the disabled and badly smashed Grapple and rolled south around the Jeep to face the other threat. She activated the machine's projectile weapons and let several volleys loose. Unlike Mann's amateurs, she knew how to operate the beast. Her shots found their mark, damaging the poorly-maintained Shrike in quick time. Smoke, flames, and static discharges danced around the bad guy's ride. That driver lost control and the whole thing drove wildly into the side of a hanger and came to a stop. The pilot tumbled out and scrambled for cover.

"Turn us around," Dice told the kid driving the Jeep, and the kid did just that, stopping just behind the friendly Shrike.

Back at the original meeting spot, Laughing Boy tossed open a foot locker and grabbed the anti-armor rocket launcher resting therein. He hurried to the hanger opening with the high-tech heat-seeking launcher on his shoulder. Before he fired, he laughed. Loudly.

Dice heard and turned just in time to see a puff of smoke as the rocket launched, aimed not at the towering Shrike in front of the Jeep but at Dice and his vehicle.

The girl inside the Heavy Duty Shrike did not hear the laugh but she did see the 'heat lock detected' warning on her console as well as the rocket plume in her rearview cameras. From birth until the fall of humanity's outposts in space, the girl had trained for battle and those instincts worked like a reflex.

In the Jeep, Dice screamed and the kid fumbled with the gear shift, stalling the car in the process.

The Shrike, however, moved to help. In a ballet-like move, the massive machine jumped backwards over top the jeep, kicking its legs and turning its torso in the process like a gymnast on the vault.

Time seemed to crawl. Dice saw everything in slow motion. He saw the rocket flying toward his car. He saw the Shrike leap over his head blocking out the sun and casting a shadow. He saw the eleven year old kid reach up in innocent wonder at the two-ton hulk of metal as it flew overhead; his fingers brushed against the smooth surface. The shadow past and the sun shone brightly once more.

Fast again. The Shrike landed on its feet with a solid thud, now facing the incoming rocket. The Gatling gun fired dozens of powerful rounds in a split second. They intercepted the missile and it exploded ten feet from the Heavy Duty in a sunflower of smoke and fire; the shrapnel bounced harmlessly on the Shrike skin keeping Dice, the kid, and the Jeep safe.

More missiles. This time two tiny ones from a pod on the Shrike's forearm. This time headed _toward_ Laughing Boy.

The smile left his face. He ran inside and the return volley exploded at the front of the hanger, collapsing chunks of concrete, toppling shelves, and providing a cover of thick smoke.

The kid started the Jeep again and Dice pointed south. They sped off in that direction, the Shrike kept pace but did so moving backwards with its 'face' focused on the hangers behind them. The car and the fighting machine escaped from the base and sped out into the wasteland. Once clear, the girl spun the Shrike around with a jump and a twist, landing smoothly on the rollers in a move much more complex to execute than a spectator might expect.

Dice sat in the passenger seat, the hot afternoon breeze causing his thick dark hair to waver in the wind.

He ran a hand over his face and then opened the glove compartment. There he found a small white package with a red bull's eye logo on front. He pulled the last cigarette from the pack and stuck it between his lips.

The eleven year old kid behind the steering wheel told Dice, "You know she's never going to let us hear the end of this."

Dice struck a match and lit the tip of the smoke. He took a deep drag then exhaled a small cloud.

"Yea, I know."


	2. Campfire

**2. Campfire**

The flames danced and twisted, casting off tiny embers that sparkled like microscopic fireflies before burning out. A haphazard ring of bricks and stones circled the campfire of sticks and old boards which cast a soft, liquid glow that bounced off the parked Jeep, the kneeling Armored Shrike, and the three travelers gathered around. That small circle of light sat isolated and alone in a sea of black.

Dice tossed back a tin cup and savored the last mouthful of coffee knowing that it was, literally, the _last_ mouthful until they could replenish their provisions. The same could be said of the food they had consumed (smoked meats and dried vegetables). As for water—the most important provision of all—they each held a canteen or less and that would need to do until they reached the rendezvous, probably a good twelve hours from now.

Dice squinted his eyes and looked to the north, but he could see nothing beyond the glow of the fire. When they had arrived just after sunset he thought he glimpsed a distant river in that direction, just beyond a group of half-destroyed buildings that might have belonged to a factory of some kind. Perhaps they could replenish from there, depending on what had come from that factory in the old days.

As devastating as the Blue's arrival had been to human civilization, the creatures had been kind to nature: the years between the departure of modern man into orbit and his return after the Blue's withdrawal had a cleansing effect on the Earth. Considering that those who remained behind were reduced to a primitive state of society (if the term 'society' could even apply), pollution dropped to pre-industrial age levels. Rivers, streams, the ocean, the air…all slowly cleared of man's mark.

Therefore, drawing water from a running river did not hold the risk it did when Dice had been a kid. That is, as long as that factory had not produced particularly nasty byproducts and as long as this area had not been subjected to "Project Clean Sweep" during the closing days of the evacuation. Nothing like a dozen nukes hitting the same bull's eye over and over again to really foul up an ecosystem.

A loud yawn interrupted Dice's thoughts. It came from the eleven year old boy who now wore a red windbreaker over his green t-shirt and sat in front of the fire rocking with a pillow wedged between his knees and his chest. Eastern Russia was a lot like the moon: very hot days were often followed by very cold nights.

"You should get some shut-eye," Dice told the kid.

"Yeah, I—" another wide yawn. "I…suppose so."

Dice turned to the sixteen year old blond girl who sat atop her sleeping bag in her battle suit breaking down a heat-sensing-scope-equipped sniper rifle. Her green eyes fixated on the weapon with intense concentration while her hands worked in a process so routine to her that she could probably have done it with those concentrating eyes shut.

Dice asked, "Ishiko, what are you doing?"

"I am cleaning my weapon."

The boy quipped, "She has to get it ready for bed to tuck it in. That's what mommy's do for their babies, didn't you know, Dice?"

"Shut up, Major," she called him by what was his nickname, not a rank. Nonetheless Dice saw her otherwise stoic face cringe in contempt as she said the word.

He knew why, too. Ishiko had been born on Second Earth and grown up in a strict military environment where words like 'Major' held tremendous importance. The idea of a groundling kid taking it as a nickname just because his dad had been a Second Earth officer on a drop mission did not sit well with her. This came to the surface most often when she was aggravated. During those times she would call the boy by his real name--'Benny'--and that annoyed him to no end.

Dice took the opening to say, "Yeah, well, I gotta admit that if it wasn't for that rifle of yours and your dead-aim I'd probably be a trophy on Mann's wall right now."

She stopped disassembling the rifle and looked at Dice offering no expression, no emotion, just her attention.

"Um, yeah, what I'm trying to say," he ran a hand over the back of his neck and looked anywhere but at her, "is that, um, you did a good job."

Her response: "You lost your hat."

"Huh? Oh yeah, it got knocked off my head. Look, I'll take first watch. You two get some rest."

"I don't think we should stop moving," Ishiko said as her hands returned to cleaning the sniper weapon. "We put both of their Shrikes out of commission but they probably have scouts out trying to track us down. That's what I would do."  
Major protested with a whine, "No way! I need to rest. We were going all day."

"That's not a militarily sound idea," Ishiko replied with her eyes still on her work.

"This isn't Second Earth! You're not in charge. Dice is."

"He knows I'm right."

"No," Major protested to Quaid. "I got to get to sleep. I'm going to keel over if I don't."

"Whoa, hold on, relax there, kiddies."

The boy and the girl rarely agreed on anything yet in one voice they both insisted, "Don't call us 'kiddies'!"

Dice slapped a hand over his eyes in anticipation of a coming head ache.

"Look," he said, "We're all exhausted—"

"I'm not exhausted," Ishiko corrected matter-of-factly.

Major snipped, "Yeah, well you're a robot."

"Whatever you say, _Benjamin."_

Before Major could reply Dice went on, "We're all exhausted so we need to take a break but she's right, Mann ain't the type of guy to give up easy. The more distance we put between him and us the better."

"Aw, geez…"

"Listen, Major," Dice consoled, "We have a meeting to get to tomorrow. And if we don't get there with this piece of property," Dice pointed to the silent Shrike, "then we won't get our pay off. And you know what that means."

Major did know. He remembered that their payoff would not only include supplies like food and water but something special for him that had been negotiated as part of payment. A smile tugged at the boy's face.

"Okay…but can I sleep for a little while?"

"Yes. You both can. I'll take first watch."

"Not a good idea," Ishiko countered as she started the process of re-assembling the weapon now that its working parts were free of dust and grit.

"Didn't they teach you in all that fancy Second Earth training about pacing yourself?"

"They taught us," she said as she snapped the barrel into place, "that if you are slow you get left behind."

Dice stared at her and she stared back with the type of blank expression he hadn't seen since ferrying Marlene Angel with Yugi to Baikonur. Dice felt certain that, someday if not already, Yuji would find the right key to break through the stoicism drilled into Marlene. But as tough a case as Angel was, she had at least been born on Earth. No matter how much humanity the counsel and people like Amick Hendar had drilled out of Marlene, she had a point of reference from her childhood, even if buried deep inside.

Ishiko? She had been born in zero gravity. Not a recruit but a product of Second Earth. Literally born a soldier. To her, the Earth was a strange land and Second Earth her destroyed home. Despite being six months shy of only her sixteenth birthday, Dice trusted her soldiering abilities as much as his own. Indeed, she was a better shot and a better Shrike pilot by far. Yet he worried that her mask of stoicism was not a mask at all. Was it too late? Major had called her a robot; Dice worried he might be right.

He laid down the law, which was usually the best tact with her. She was born, after all, to follow orders.

"Four hours. We rest her for four hours, see? Then we haul ass."

Major muttered a quick victory hoot. Ishiko held the sniper rifle in both hands and tossed it to Dice who made the catch.

"Yes, _Sir,"_ she said and it had the intended effect; sort of like fingernails on a chalkboard to him. She knew his history and every time she said 'Yes, Sir' he heard something more like, "whatever you say, deserter."

Ishiko rolled over and shut her eyes, nearly falling asleep on command.

Sometimes Dice wondered if any of it was worth the trouble.

Major also rolled over and covered himself with an old wool blanket. He remained awake, however, his eyes fixed on the stars shining in the Heavens. Dice figured that in years past the kid must've stared at those stars and wondered if his father looked down.

Nowadays the Second Earth stations were either destroyed or abandoned. What started in 2017 ended more than a year ago in early 2032. If Major asked, Ishiko could tell the stories again: fights leading to riots leading to what amounted to civil war leading to assassinations, explosions, and chaos. From what she told, Dice knew her lucky to have found room on a shuttle even if that shuttle suffered an unfortunate end.

As for the boy, his nickname came from the one piece of information he knew about his father: he had been a Major in the Second Earth military. Dice never met Benny's mom; he had found the boy living on his own in the ruins of what had been known as Almaty, Kazakhstan. The kid—and before him his mother and a few siblings--managed to eek out an existence alternating between hiding in the nearby, snow-capped mountains and raiding the Blue-infested city for supplies.

At some point eleven years ago a Second Earth drop operation had visited the area and like most drop operations—especially the early ones—it ended in disaster. Dice guessed a certain Major found himself separated from his unit and in the company of groundlings. And while Benny believed the two fell in love at first sight like normal moms and dads do, Dice figured it just as likely the guy raped the poor woman while awaiting a rescue team (they might just send a rescue for a 'Major'). Of course he would never know for sure, and neither would Benny. No point in even floating that thought.

Yet the kid clung to the dream; this romantic notion that a well-groomed officer would some day swoop down in an air ship or come over the hill in an Armored Shrike searching to reclaim his long lost son.

Dice had spent enough time on Blue-ravaged Earth to know happy endings were a rare occurrence on a planet where surviving another day was a tall order. Pure luck had put Dice in the right place to find Benny—'Major'—on one day only a few weeks after a similar helping of good fortune had happened him upon Ishiko's crashed shuttle.

She was the only survivor by the time Dice arrived at the plume of smoke. The others had died either during the uncontrolled landing or in the jaws of attacking Blue (all of whom Ishiko had eventually slaughtered with nothing more than a carbine). True, most of the planet's Blue had disappeared; retreated as if summoned by an order to withdraw. Perhaps those particular Blue didn't get the message.

Dice did get the message, however. He had received it piece by piece.

The first piece came when Yuji and Marlene had come to his neck of the wastelands on that fateful day the summer of 2031. More pieces came when he had found himself stuck between drug runners, goat herders, and Amick Hendar of Second Earth not long after Yuji and Marlene's departure. He had faced himself on those adventures and come to realize that he had to do more than sit in a corner somewhere and watch humanity hover on the brink of extinction. He felt compelled because for every Amick Hendar or crazed Second Earth Nazi there was a Yuji or a Marlene. For every petty warlord like Mr. Mann there was an innocent like Elena trying to carve out a life.

So what could Dice Quaid do to save the human race?

Dice gnawed on that thought while using the heat scope to scan his surroundings. In the distance he saw an animal—maybe a prairie dog or something like that—scurrying between clumps of weeds growing in the cracked pavement of a collapsed highway bridge.

He had once been a soldier and retained those skills. Nina—the only woman he had ever loved and the one who had convinced him to desert—had shared her knowledge of mechanical engineering meaning he could fix his share of machines. He could fight, too, even though he did not really like to. And, as far as Dice felt, he exuded a friendly disposition that made him easy to associate with.

Again the question, what could Dice Quaid do to save the human race?

The answer? Exactly what he did nowadays: odd jobs, courier runs, setting up trade deals (as had been the aim on that day), and helping to eradicate Blue (and other nasties) where they might exist (isolated nests and solitary predators remained a threat).

Along the way he made a few enemies but even more friends, both from the ranks of groundlings and from those who had escaped Second Earth (although he always felt nervous around those types).

So why bother? What was the pay out?

Dice rubbed his chin, trying to find that answer. As he did, he looked at Ishiko, who had slipped into sleep, and then at Major who struggled—unsuccessfully—to keep his eyes open.

Dice Quaid closed his own eyes and there he saw the memory of a familiar face gazing at him through beautiful brown eyes while her auburn hair lay softly on her shoulders.

_I do it for you, baby; to make it all mean something. _


	3. Rendezvous

**3. Rendezvous**

Dice bid a happy farewell—temporarily, he knew—to the barren, dusty, rocky, and overall inhospitable 'wastelands' that encompassed far too much of the Earth's surface. The trail turned into honest-to-goodness soil that struggled to grow pale grass and rows of tangled young trees. Yet growth, nonetheless.

The flatlands gave way to gentle hills and he saw white, red, purple, and green wildflowers as well as a few berry bushes that drew small song birds.

The Jeep led the way with the Heavy Duty Armored Shrike right behind, as had been the case since their escape from the meeting with Mann. Dice did not like that. Shrikes were not designed to act like passenger cars. He felt lucky the thing still ran.

As a consequence of the new terrain, the road beneath the wheels turned from smooth with a few jostles into bumps with scattered patches of smooth. The shaking rustled Major from a nap; he pulled his slumping head off the side window and blinked awake. The hot afternoon sun grew a little less so as scattered branches created flashes of shade and the breeze blowing in through the open-air cabin offered a hint of moisture.

"We there?"

"Almost, kid."

Dice steered the vehicle around a bend and the landscape opened up with a meadow sloping gently to their left as they traveled on what became actual pavement—the remains of a road built decades before. To their right things dropped off and tangled brush filled a sharp embankment between the road and a small pond. The sun returned but Dice did not mind watching it glitter off the waters. Hot, yes, but he also found the reflection on the waters refreshing; to his mind, at least.

"Are we on time?" Major asked.

"Yep. Or, I think so."

Dice alternated his eyes from the road ahead to the land around. He forgot how good it felt to the soul to be surrounded by plants, grass, and water filled with life. Spending too much time in the mostly-dead wastelands could drain a man; make him cold and heartless to match the world. He looked forward to the day he might be able to settle in a place like this, but that would not be for a long while. He still had too much to do before he could satisfy what he thought she would want.

_Still missing you, baby_.

The radio on the front seat crackled as Ishiko called from the cockpit of the Shrike.

"The turn is up here somewhere, right?"

Major reached for the radio but Dice reached faster. He figured the kid would only have something wise ass to say. He kept one hand on the wheel and worked the transmitter with the other.

"Yeah it's right about—crap, _here!"_

Dice swung the Jeep hard as the spotted the remains of an old wood fence peeking out from beneath a veil of yellow and green ivory that had crept and crawled to nearly suffocate the fence.

The Shrike followed with less drama being a machine built for quick turns and fast maneuvers, if not long distance. Both vehicles splashed through a muddy puddle that suggested recent rainfall; another rarity in the half-dead world.

The trees returned, this time healthier ones; healthy enough to form a canopy of green overtop the mud-and-gravel road. Splatters of brown wetness peppered the windscreen and the air felt heavy.

He slowed the Jeep. A quarter-mile past the turn the trees thinned and the remains of an old world farm came in to view: the foundation of a destroyed house, a field with decayed crops, a fenced meadow where the bones of cows and horses lay, a rusted tractor toppled on its side, and a red barn that still stood despite black burn marks suggesting a fire many years before.

The doors to the barn hung ajar. Dice eased to a stop at the front of the barn; Ishiko rolled the Shrike around and entered the darkness there.

As usual, Dice felt the hair on his neck stand taught despite trusting the people he expected to be waiting inside. It was the 'expecting' part that so often screwed him.

He and Major exited the Jeep and walked inside. The metallic smell of the Shrike's idling power cells mixed with a sweet aroma of rotting hay to create a bouquet of distinct odors that coerced a sneeze from Dice. But it was the sight, not the smell, that allowed those taught hairs to relax and brought a smile to his lips.

Inside the barn just past the stopped Shrike waited two vehicles; a larger carrier designed to transport the armored beasts as well as an old military Hummer painted in desert camouflage colors.

A middle-aged man with Mediterranean tone on his skin waited alongside a similarly-aged red-haired woman whose far paler complexion contrasted with her husband's. And there, Dice saw, stood the future of humanity: Jose Paris—a former 'groundling'—married to Donna—a former Second Earth infantryman. In the loft watched two other strong men with guns who struck Dice as survivors from the now-destroyed satellites who served mainly as field hands for the Paris' but whose combat skills were still occasionally required.

"Dice!" Donna hurried to him and gave the big guy a friendly hug. "You did it," she referenced the Shrike, from which Ishiko exited through the rear hatch.

"Yes, well, um--"

Jose stepped forward, "So Mr. Mann was willing to bargain after all! This is great news. The way things are going we should have another five thousand gallons of fresh petrol for trade before the end of the week."

Dice scratched his head, "Gee, that's great, Jose. Really. But, well, you see…"

"You must be starving," Donna suggested and produced a picnic basket from the front of the Hummer. Dice chuckled at how easily the former soldier—Donna—had morphed from warrior to mother-figure. He hoped Ishiko would make some kind of transition herself some day.

Jose ruffled Major's hair. The kid acted annoyed but Dice guessed it to be a front.

"Tell me, Dice, what does Mann offer to trade next?"

Ishiko said in such a dry voice that the Paris' did not catch the sarcasm: "Bullets."

"Well, we have plenty of those from our ammunition caches," Jose's expression corkscrewed. "I was hoping for something more like machine parts, chemicals, and particularly medical supplies. Is that all he offered?"

Dice—still scratching his head—tried to break the news softly: "Well, no, he actually, um--"

Major blurted, "That Mann guy tried to shoot Dice," and then chomped into a sandwich Donna gave him.

Donna stumbled, "He…tried…to…what?"

Ishiko shed her battle suit down to a sleeveless t-shirt and examined one of the Shrike's massive legs and said, "It's like I have always said, the best thing for negotiations is having a bigger gun."

"Well, it didn't go exactly as planned, see?" Dice explained. "I guess this Mann fella isn't really a 'live and let live' type of guy."

Jose pointed toward the Shrike where Ishiko popped off a metal plate to examine a mess of wires and cables. He said, "But you got the Shrike. I don't understand…he did trade you the Shrike for the gas, right?"

"Well, he took the gas but, um, wasn't going to give up his end of the bargain."

Major mumbled through a mouth of bread and meat: "So we shot em' up and took off with the goods. I drove!"

"Let me get this straight," Donna stopped handing out sandwiches. "You told us he agreed to the whole swap in the preliminary negotiations."

"Well…he did, yep."

"So when you show up with the tanker he refuses to make the trade."

"Right," Dice nodded his head. "He wanted to keep the gas and come see you in person."

Donna said, "I wish he would have," and Dice caught a glimpse of the soldier behind her eyes. "We could have worked it out," and he figured she meant 'worked it out' with rifles.

"Now, hold on," he tried to calm her down. "First off, you don't want to go messin' with this Mann guy. He's got a small army of goons some of them ex-military, too. Plus we saw this Shrike and two others; he's probably got a stable full of them."

"Yes, we know," Jose said and placed a hand on Dice's shoulder. "That's why we were thankful you volunteered to be the go-between. We have just enough people to operate the drills and the refinery with a skeleton staff; not an army. That's why we wanted the Shrike."

"And now you've got it," Dice motioned toward the vehicle again. He saw Ishiko digging deeper into the electronics with zeal.

Donna moved closer to the young girl and asked, "What is it?"

"I'm checking the hydraulics on this side," Ishiko said. "They felt kind of sluggish like there's some interference or something."

"No, no," Donna corrected. "What is that on your arm?"

Ishiko paused and held her right arm out. On the bicep rested a faded tattoo depicting a scythe in the clutches of skeletal fingers.

"Huh? Oh, that? I dunno. I've had it from as far back as I can remember. Think I got it as a kind, maybe even an infant."

"Point is," Dice interrupted, "You've got your Shrike and we got out of there before he could kill any of us and without finding where you're at."

"I think he knows," Ishiko—her head back in the Shrike again—blurted.

"What?" Dice stepped closer. "Don't be a dumb ass. No one followed us."

She stopped him not with words but by pulling a round silver object about the size of a tea cup from the innards of the war machine's leg. Several lights on the surface blinked and it vibrated softly.

"A tracker," Ishiko said.

Donna added, "Yes, it is. Back in the old days we'd shoot them onto Blues to track them to their nest."

"Awe, Christ," Dice slapped a hand over his face. "I shoulda known."

Jose asked, "What does this mean?" And his hand moved instinctively to the side arm strapped to his thigh.

"It means Mann has a pretty good idea where his Shrike is," Dice admitted. "I'm sorry. Sonofabitch!"

Ishiko added—almost hopefully—"He could attack us any second."

"No, no," Dice waved his hand. "We took out his other two mechs that he had at the meeting spot. He'll have to fix them or bring in new ones. Besides, if he's following us it's from pretty far off, I didn't see anything and he'll want to wait until he knows we've delivered the goods."

"I don't understand," Jose said. "Why would he go to all that trouble?"

"For your gas," Dice said as he recalled how valuable even a single can of the stuff could be worth—or how much trouble it could get a guy into. "He knows you drill, he knows you refine. That's liquid gold. Most Shrikes still run on the old power cells but can be modified to run on petrol. A ton of junk left over from the old world still runs on gas, too. It's wealth for a guy like Mann. He'll want it. And he'll want you, too."

"Well fight him," Jose tensed and Donna stood at his side. "They won't take what we've built up without a fight."

"He'll bring an army," Dice doused their enthusiasm.

"I don't care," Jose stiffed his lip. "We have worked too hard to scrape out a life in this wasteland. We have farms, now, and have scavenged enough to put together a little community. We meant to make our gasoline production something we could trade…to start the world anew just like in ancient times. I will not give that up."

Dice smiled. He liked the Paris'. He liked them because they had a vision of how to get from the apocalypse left behind by the Blue to a new civilization and they were willing to do the work to get there.

Unlike types like Mann who offered only guns and thugs. He would make slaves of the Paris', waste their hard effort, and build nothing but more misery. If humanity were to survive on the new Earth it would take the cooperation, intelligence, and foresight of people like Jose and Donna and their small group. The Mann's of the world were obstacles that needed to be avoided until they could be defeated.

"Don't you worry about a thing," he told them. "I have an idea."

Dice grabbed the tracking device from Ishiko and held it aloft.

"We'll keep heading east. Give him a trail to follow while you bug out and head back north to your place. Take him on a real trip, we will."

"I do not understand," Jose scratched his chin. "What will you do?"

"You take the Shrike," Dice nodded to himself as the plan came into focus. "We'll take this tracking thing with us and drive east. As long as he doesn't get sight of us he'll think his A.S. is heading east, while you take off to the north. Just try and cover up your tracks real good when you leave here in case he comes past here along the way."

"More running," Ishiko sneered under her breath. Dice ignored her.

"Look, I'd love to stick around and chat but we don't know how far behind us he is." Dice did some mental calculations. "I have to figure we've got a good twenty-four hours on him but who knows, I've been wrong before, he-he."

Donna stepped forward.

"You don't have to do this. Just bury that damn tracker and come on back with us. We could use a strong back like yours. And the kids could actually be kids."

Both Ishiko and Major protested in unison, their voices carried a whine akin to the sound of children from the old world at bed time.

"No way, I don't want to live in a refinery!"

"I'm not staying; I have to find my dad!"

"Dice, you promised we'd keep moving!"

He held a hand aloft to silence the choir and then spoke to Donna and Jose.

"Don't mind them, they're just kids. Still, you know, trying to figure things out. They wouldn't know a good thing if landed hard on their laps. I guess…" his mind drifted off for a moment and he softly pondered, "…I guess we were all like that once."

"Don't fool yourself, Mr. Quaid," Jose observed. "You are not going to settle down any time soon. One look at you and that is obvious. The question is…why?"

Dice scratched his noggin.

"He-he, well, you see here's the thing. I did just that. Found myself a nice stretch of desolation and bunked up for a while. Thought I'd build myself a new world in a corner of the old one. Thing is, sooner or later the problems come looking for you."

"Dice," Donna asked gently. "Were you by yourself in that world?"

He shot her a glance and she saw the answer in his eyes. No more explanation was necessary; not in that world. Death and loss were as much a part of post-Blue world as hunger and violence.

"So any-who," Dice moved things along. "I figure I've got a lot more left to do before I can find somewhere to settle up again."

"There is more to it than that, Mr. Quaid," Jose knew. "You are not just some wanderer. I knew that the moment you first found us; when you brought a truck full of vegetables from those farmers outside of Volgograd. The same way you took our offer of gasoline to Mr. Mann. Tell me, why are you doing this?"

Dice fidgeted. Major and Ishiko let out loud, long huffs of air to show their impatience.

"Well, I, see, I guess," he stumbled. "Look, let's just say I'm trying to do my part to get this whole human race thing up and going. It's sort of my debt…my piece of the puzzle. Or, I guess, you might call it my punishment for sitting on the side lines for so long. In the end, what does it matter? I'm doing what I think I have to do, you see? The same way you're doing what you have to do."

"You're a good man, Dice," Donna said.

"Say, careful you don't let that word get around. I've got an image to keep up. And speaking of that…well, I um, hate to say it but I think we've got a payment due on this…"

"Oh! Yes of course," Jose waved to his men in the rafters who switched roles from guards to pack mules. They put aside their rifles and transferred several large crates from the carrier vehicle to Dice's Jeep.

Jose ticked off the 'payment': "Food stuffs, water, first-aid materials, and twenty gallons of water plus enough gasoline for a couple of full tanks."

Major cleared his throat from behind, a reminder that the basic supplies served merely as part of their reward.

Jose himself took care of the rest. He produced a duffle bag from his vehicle and approached Dice's trio like Santa Claus on Christmas morning, not that either child had any concept of who that was.

"Two hundred rounds of ammunition…"

"That'd be me," Ishiko raised her hand and received her deadly bounty.

"One carton of hand-rolled cigarettes."

Both kids pointed to Dice who grinned sheepishly.

"And here, for you," Jose knelt in from of the little boy and produced a small jewelry box. Major's eyes grew wide. "Two gold oak leaves."

Jose pinned the insignias on the dirty collar of the boy's shirt and light heartedly warned, "Careful now, it's illegal to impersonate an officer."

"My father was a Major!" He told Jose through a grin.

Ishiko rolled her eyes but a stern look from Dice kept her from being any more mean.

Jose finished decorating the boy: "And now you wear the rank he wore."

Major moved to the side view mirror on the Jeep to admire his new decorations. Ishiko added the ordnance to her collection. Dice lingered for a moment.

"Well, we had better hit the road. We'll take this tracking device as far east as we can to throw him off your trail. Sooner or later I'll think of some safe way of ditching it. Maybe I can find a few left over Blue to hold on to it for me. Now that would be a nice howdy-do for those goons."

"Thank you, Dice," Donna said yet again. "And good luck to you."

"Luck? Honest Ma'am, I've had my fair share of luck and it's been mostly bad. I'll do for myself, if you don't mind."

"That's what tough guys always say," Donna smiled. "But sooner or later even the toughest guy realizes that he needs someone. Keep looking, Dice. Sometimes you get more than one chance in a life time."

He could think of no rebuttal, so he nodded and guided his 'kids' into the Jeep. Donna piloted the Shrike into the carrier truck and Jose watched the Jeep as it drove off to the east.


End file.
